Monsieur Maurice
117 Pages
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Monsieur Maurice


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117 Pages


The Project Gutenberg EBook of Monsieur Maurice, by Amelia B. Edwards #2 in our series by Amelia B. EdwardsCopyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloadingor redistributing this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do notchange or edit the header without written permission.Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of thisfile. Included is important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how the file may be used. You can alsofind out about how to make a donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts****eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971*******These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****Title: Monsieur MauriceAuthor: Amelia B. EdwardsRelease Date: June, 2005 [EBook #8383] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first postedon July 5, 2003] [Date last updated: November 23, 2004]Edition: 10Language: English*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MONSIEUR MAURICE ***Produced by Suzanne Shell, Christopher Lund and the Online Distributed Proofreading TeamMONSIEUR MAURICEByAMELIA B. EDWARDS18731The events I am about to relate took place more than fifty ...



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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Monsieur
Maurice, by Amelia B. Edwards #2 in our series by
Amelia B. Edwards

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Please read the "legal small print," and other
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**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla
Electronic Texts**

**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By
Computers, Since 1971**

*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands
of Volunteers!*****

Title: Monsieur Maurice

Author: Amelia B. Edwards

Release Date: June, 2005 [EBook #8383] [Yes, we
failree wmaosr fei rtsht apno sotneed yoena rJ ualhy e5a, d 2o0f0 s3c] h[eDdautlee ]l a[sTthis
updated: November 23, 2004]

Edition: 10

Language: English


tPhreo dOuncliende bDyi sStruibzautnende PSrhoeollf,r eCahdriinstgo Tpehaerm Lund and






The events I am about to relate took place more
than fifty years ago. I am a white-haired old woman
now, and I was then a little girl scarce ten years of
age; but those times, and the places and people
associated with them, seem, in truth, to lie nearer
my memory than the times and people of to-day.
Trivial incidents which, if they had happened
yesterday, would be forgotten, come back upon
me sometimes with all the vivid detail of a
photograph; and words unheeded many a year ago
start out, like the handwriting on the wall, in sudden
characters of fire.

But this is no new experience. As age creeps on,
we all have the same tale to tell. The days of our
youth are those we remember best and most
fondly, and even the sorrows of that bygone time
become pleasures in the retrospect. Of my own
solitary childhood I retain the keenest recollection,

as the following pages will show.

My father's name was Bernhard—Johann Ludwig
Bernhard; and he was a native of Coblentz on the
Rhine. Having grown grey in the Prussian service,
fought his way slowly and laboriously from the
ranks upward, been seven times wounded and
twice promoted on the field, he was made colonel
of his regiment in 1814, when the Allies entered
Paris. In 1819, being no longer fit for active
service, he retired on a pension, and was
appointed King's steward of the Château of
Augustenburg at Brühl—a sort of military
curatorship to which few duties and certain
contingent emoluments were attached. Of these
last, a suite of rooms in the Château, a couple of
acres of private garden, and the revenue accruing
from a small local impost, formed the most
important part. It was towards the latter half of this
year (1819) that, having now for the first time in his
life a settled home in which to receive me, my
father fetched me from Nuremberg where I was
living with my aunt, Martha Baur, and took me to
reside with him at Brühl.

Now my aunt, Martha Baur, was an exemplary
person in her way; a rigid Lutheran, a strict
disciplinarian, and the widow of a wealthy wool-
stapler. She lived in a gloomy old house near the
Frauen-Kirche, where she received no society, and
led a life as varied and lively on the whole as that
of a Trappist. Every Wednesday afternoon we paid
a visit to the grave of her "blessed man" in the
Protestant cemetery outside the walls, and on

Sundays we went three times to church. These
were the only breaks in the long monotony of our
daily life. On market-days we never went out of
doors at all; and when the great annual fair-time
came round, we drew down all the front blinds and
inhabited the rooms at the back.

As for the pleasures of childhood, I cannot say that
I knew many of them in those old Nuremberg days.
Still I was not unhappy, nor even very dull. It may
be that, knowing nothing pleasanter, I was not
even conscious of the dreariness of the
atmosphere I breathed. There was, at all events, a
big old-fashioned garden full of vegetables and
cottage-flowers, at the back of the house, in which
I almost lived in Spring and Summer-time, and
from which I managed to extract a great deal of
enjoyment; while for companions and playmates I
had old Karl, my aunt's gardener, a pigeon-house
full of pigeons, three staid elderly cats, and a
tortoise. In the way of education I fared scantily
enough, learning just as little as it pleased my aunt
to teach me, and having that little presented to me
under its driest and most unattractive aspect.

Such was my life till I went away with my father in
the Autumn of 1819. I was then between nine and
ten years of age—having lost my mother in earliest
infancy, and lived with aunt Martha Baur ever since
I could remember.

The change from Nuremberg to Brühl was for me
like the transition from Purgatory to Paradise. I
enjoyed for the first time all the delights of liberty. I

had no lessons to learn; no stern aunt to obey; but,
which was infinitely pleasanter, a kind-hearted
Rhenish Mädchen, with a silver arrow in her hair, to
wait upon me; and an indulgent father whose only
orders were that I should be allowed to have my
own way in everything.

And my way was to revel in the air and the
sunshine; to roam about the park and pleasure-
grounds; to watch the soldiers at drill, and hear the
band play every day, and wander at will about the
deserted state-apartments of the great empty

Looking back upon it from this distance of time, I
should pronounce the Electoral Residenz at Brühl
to be a miracle of bad taste; but not Aladdin's
palace if planted amid the gardens of Armida could
then have seemed lovelier in my eyes. The
building, a heavy many-windowed pile in the worst
style of the worst Renaissance period, stood, and
still stands, in a fat, flat country about ten miles
from Cologne, to which city it bears much the
same relation that Hampton Court bears to
London, or Versailles to Paris. Stucco and
whitewash had been lavished upon it inside and
out, and pallid scagliola did duty everywhere for
marble. A grand staircase supported by agonised
colossi, grinning and writhing in vain efforts to look
as if they didn't mind the weight, led from the great
hall to the state apartments; and in these rooms
the bad taste of the building may be said to have
culminated. Here were mirrors framed in
meaningless arabesques, cornices painted to

represent bas-reliefs, consoles and pilasters of
mock marble, and long generations of Electors in
the tawdriest style of portraiture, all at full length,
all in their robes of office, and all too evidently by
one and the same hand. To me, however, they
were all majestic and beautiful. I believed in
themselves, their wigs, their armour, their ermine,
their high-heeled shoes and their stereotyped
smirk, from the earliest to the latest.

But the gardens and grounds were my chief
delight, as indeed they were the main attraction of
the place, making it the focus of a holiday resort
for the townsfolk of Cologne and Bonn, and a point
of interest for travellers. First came a great
gravelled terrace upon which the ground-floor
windows opened—a terrace where the sun shone
more fiercely than elsewhere, and orange-trees in
tubs bore golden fruit, and great green, yellow, and
striped pumpkins, alternating with beds of brilliant
white and scarlet geraniums, lay lazily sprawling in
the sunshine as if they enjoyed it. Beyond this
terrace came vast flats of rich green sward laid out
in formal walks, flower-beds and fountains; and
beyond these again stretched some two or three
miles of finely wooded park, pierced by long
avenues that radiated from a common centre and
framed in exquisite little far-off views of Falkenlust
and the blue hills of the Vorgebirge.

We were lodged at the back, where the private
gardens and offices abutted on the village. Our
own rooms looked upon our own garden, and upon
the church and Franciscan convent beyond. In the

warm dusk, when all was still, and my father used
to sit smoking his meerschaum by the open
window, we could hear the low pealing of the
chapel-organ, and the monks chanting their
evening litanies.

A happy time—a pleasant, peaceful place! Ah me!
how long ago!


A whole delightful Summer and Autumn went by
thus, and my new home seemed more charming
with every change of season. First came the
gathering of the golden harvest; then the joyous
vintage-time, when the wine-press creaked all day
in every open cellar along the village street, and
long files of country carts came down from the hills
in the dusk evenings, laden with baskets and
barrels full of white and purple grapes. And then
the long avenues and all the woods of Brühl put on
their Autumn robes of crimson, and flame-colour,
and golden brown; and the berries reddened in the
hedges; and the Autumn burned itself away like a
gorgeous sunset; and November came in grey and
cold, like the night-time of the year.

I was so happy, however, that I enjoyed even the
dull November. I loved the bare avenues carpeted
with dead and rustling leaves—the solitary gardens
—the long, silent afternoons and evenings when

the big logs crackled on the hearth, and my father
smoked his pipe in the chimney corner. We had no
such wood-fires at Aunt Martha Baur's in those
dreary old Nuremberg days, now almost forgotten;
but then, to be sure, Aunt Martha Baur, who was a
sparing woman and looked after every groschen,
had to pay for her own logs, whereas ours were
cut from the Crown Woods, and cost not a pfennig.

It was, as well as I can remember, just about this
time, when the days were almost at their briefest,
that my father received an official communication
from Berlin desiring him to make ready a couple of
rooms for the immediate reception of a state-
prisoner, for whose safe-keeping he would be held
responsible till further notice. The letter—(I have it
in my desk now)—was folded square, sealed with
five seals, and signed in the King's name by the
Minister of War; and it was brought, as I well
remember, by a mounted orderly from Cologne.

So a couple of empty rooms were chosen on the
second story, just over one of the State
apartments at the end of the east wing; and my
father, who was by no means well pleased with his
office, set to work to ransack the Château for

"Since it is the King's pleasure to make a gaoler of
me," said he, "I'll try to give my poor devil of a
prisoner all the comforts I can. Come with me, my
little Gretchen, and let's see what chairs and tables
we can find up in the garrets."